Bright Light Cafe - Short Story

The House Guest

Chestnut Cottage is a rather quaint, Tudor thatched dwelling with its white walls and black oak timbers, rose covered lych-gate and a wishing well in the garden. It is very much the stereo typical “chocolate box” image of an English country cottage. It’s in a fairly remote area situated at the end of Vicarage Lane, some half a mile from the church and about a mile from Appleby village itself.

My name is Harry Tyler and I lived in the cottage for more than twenty years and, by the time summer came to an end, I had been in residence another eight months after I died. Not in a physical sense, my body did not lie undiscovered, decomposing in my armchair; I was found and dealt with in the proper manner.

At the time I was happy enough to die though I took no hand in it, I hasten to add. I died of natural causes.

The last year of my life was a mere existence after the death of my dear wife, Rose. We had no children of our own and what other family that were left, we were not close to.

Rose and I had been happily married for 47 years. We retired to Appleby village and we had such a nice life together. She was my conduit to the world; she was the interface that connected me to people. After she was gone, it was like being stranded in a foreign land without a translator. To find myself alone in the world, at the age of seventy four, filled me with dread so I withdrew into the safety of the cottage and became very reclusive, only venturing out when I had to.

When I died, I thought I would be reunited with my Rose again. But I remained in the cottage and she was nowhere to be found. I spent every day confined to the cottage and garden, the same prison I confined myself to before I died. In many ways it was no different to when I was alive except I didn’t have to eat or drink. Nor did I have to wash or comb my hair or trim my beard and, of course, I didn’t feel anything. I was exactly as I was when I died … a fat, old man with white hair and a beard, wearing the same clothes I had on when I breathed my last.

I hoped to God I didn’t have to spend eternity wearing that awful red jumper. I hated that jumper. The only reason I was wearing it at all was that my favourite one was still damp and I didn’t want to catch a chill. If I had realised I was going to pop my clogs anyway, I would have worn the other one.

So there I stood a fat, white bearded, old man wearing a red sweater that made me look like an off duty Santa Claus. I didn’t understand why I was still there; I didn’t want to be there I wanted to be with Rose. I thought there must be something I had to do in order that I could move on but, at that time, I had no idea what that something might have been.

On the first of September, I thought, "today is not like any other day, today things are going to change". I was standing in what used to be the bedroom Rose and I shared and I was looking out through the window at the unfolding scene below.

A removal truck had just come to a stop in the lane and a small, blue car parked a suitable distance behind it. The driver of the car slowly got out and walked towards the gate, pausing briefly to speak to the removal men who were lowering the tail board. She walked through the gate and down the long winding path.

She was an attractive, young woman, late twenties or probably early thirties, petite with shoulder length, black hair that shimmered with a hint of blue, like a raven’s wing, and she walked awkwardly with a stick in her right hand.

I recognised her at once as one of fifteen or so prospective buyers who viewed the cottage during the summer. I thought to myself that it would be nice to have company. Even if there would be no conversation, it would be a bit like watching a soap opera on TV. I would have preferred it to be a man; after all spying on a young woman would make me feel a bit like a peeping Tom, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Then, as I watched her slow progress down the path, something terrible occurred to me - what if she was one of those awful naturist types who go about the house naked, where would I look? Then I laughed at the stupid question I had asked myself. It was obvious where I would look. I might be dead, but I was still a man.

I watched her discreetly over the next week or so, as she went about her unpacking and arranging her furniture. Due to my gentlemanly disposition, I declared her bedroom and the bathroom as off limits. As I was in my ninth month of limbo I was desperate for knowledge of the wider world and I was bitterly disappointed that she didn’t have a television. I really missed the TV. She didn’t even listen to the radio. I had hoped she might, at least, take a daily paper but, no, the only paper to come through the door was the local freebie.

She did have a computer and I did look over her shoulder while she was using it, very rude I know and under normal circumstance I would never have done such a thing but, I thought to myself, needs must.

By the end of September, the computer had taught me a lot. I had established that her name was Juliana Molesworth, and she was a workaholic who lived on the computer. In fact, the computer was her life! It was her work, she shopped on it, she banked on it, it was her library, it was her music collection, and it was her only friend.

Apart from her visits for physiotherapy, she never went out and her only visitors were delivery people … oh, and a hairdresser.

This young woman was making the same mistake that I had. She was cutting herself off from the world and making the cottage her prison. Though I didn’t know why she was withdrawing from the world, I now knew what I had to do to move on. I had to save Juliana from my own fate.

I know that strictly speaking, as I was dead, I couldn’t actually live with her but, after living with Juliana for five weeks, it had become clear that she had gone to Chestnut Cottage to cut herself off from the world and I knew, from bitter experience, that course of action was pure folly.

My job was to show her the error of her ways but I had absolutely know idea how I would achieve that. For a start, I was dead and invisible although I could make myself visible without any difficulty. The problem was not if I could make her see me but when and how would she take it. If she didn’t freak out at having a resident ghost then she almost certainly would when she discovered she had been sharing the cottage with an old man who could make himself invisible.

I decided, for the mean time, to just keep an eye on her until I could figure out the best course of action. I did allow her the odd glimpse, a reflection in a mirror, a shape in the corner of her eye, just to test her nerve but she seemed un-phased by it or would dismiss it with a shrug.

She seemed, at least on the surface anyway, to be quite a strong character. She was clearly in a lot of pain from her hip and she took strong pain killers for it. She got around some of the day without her stick but, towards the end of the day, she couldn’t walk without it and she would rub her hip. I could see the pain etched into her face.

Juliana had a pretty face, when it wasn’t screwed up in pain, with hypnotic green eyes and a sensual mouth. There were some faint scars on her chin and some more on her forehead but they did not detract from her beauty.

It was getting towards the end of the month and I was out in the garden, after a glorious late summer / early autumn day and would have felt quite warm, had I been able to feel it. I was watching the sun set, as I had so many times with Rose. I missed her so much, and I was feeling sorry for myself, so I stayed until the sun disappeared behind the trees then I went back inside.

Juliana sat perched on the edge of an armchair and in front of her, on the coffee table, was a large glass of wine and a pile of pain killers. I feared the worse as I sat in the empty armchair opposite her. To my mind booze and pills meant only one thing.

Her hand was shaking as it moved towards the tablets.

“Don’t do it,” I said.

“What?” She looked around the room, “Who said that?”

“I did,” I said, as I appeared.

She went stiff and white and said, “Where did you come from? How did you get in here? Get out before I call the police.”

Then she grabbed the empty pill bottle and through it at me. It went through my chest, hitting the back of the chair before bouncing back on to the floor, ending up by her feet.

She had managed to pull herself to her feet and was wielding her cane but, when she saw the pill bottle come to a stop by her feet, she flopped down into the chair and said, “Damn, I’ve taken too many and now I’m hallucinating”.

“You’re not hallucinating,” I said quietly, “I’m really here.”

“No, no, that’s not possible,” she said and drained the wine glass, then instantly refilled it.

“I’ve over-dosed.” She was trembling and she held out a hand in front of her and watched it shake, “Oh God, now I’ve got the tremors.”

She closed her eyes tight for half a minute then opened them and stared at me, “And you’re still here.”

“You’re really not hallucinating,” I said quietly, “I’m really here.”

Please, don’t take your own life.”

She took a double take and was suddenly calmer as she considered what I had said.

“Take my own life?” she said quizzically.

Then she glanced down at the pile of pills and the glass of wine.

“I’m not going to kill myself.”

I looked at her and nodded and said “good” but I didn’t believe her and she could tell.

“I tipped them out to count them because my leg is hurting so bad I thought I must have missed taking one but I haven’t, damn it, and I can’t have another one for two hours”, she said impatiently.

That made sense to me, and then I felt foolish. I had exposed myself for nothing.

“I can see you believe me now,” she said, “so now tell me who you are or what you are?”

“My name is Harry Tyler.”

“I know that name … this was your house, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re dead! You died here,” she took a large gulp of wine, “Are you a ghost, or an angel?”

“I think I’m just a ghost. I haven’t been anywhere to become an angel.”

“So, why are you here? Why haven’t you gone to where dead people go?”

She drained her glass and filled it again quickly.

“I not really sure,” I lied.

There was silence for a few moments before she asked, “Is there a heaven?”

“I don’t know if there is a heaven or not. I’ve always believed that there was.”

I paused for a moment.

“My wife, Rose, died in this cottage and she has obviously gone somewhere.”

“God, how many people have died here? Is it cursed or something?”

She had another gulp of wine. Then a look of panic came over her face. “Have you been here all the time, ever since I moved in, I mean?” Then she flushed deep red, “You haven’t been letching at me in the bath?”

I laughed and said, “No, it’s alright, don’t worry. I haven’t been letching at you, even though you are a very attractive, young woman.”

She looked doubtful, so I continued, “I am painfully aware that this is not my home anymore and, as such, there are areas that I have made off limits; I am a very discreet ghost”.

She sighed, and looked reassured. We sat in silence for a while then she fell asleep in the armchair.

For the next two days, I didn’t show myself to her, partly because I thought it might be better for her to digest the knowledge of my existence for a while before I spoke to her again and, partly, because I was angry at myself for misreading the situation the previous evening and alerting her to my presence unnecessarily.

I had acted on the spur of the moment but, in truth, it hadn’t upset my plans in anyway, chiefly because I didn’t have a plan to upset. Of course, there was always the possibility she might think she had imagined the whole thing as a result of the wine and painkillers.

I looked in on her from time to time and, apart from the obvious signs of a hangover and her limp, she seemed okay... although she did tend to suddenly look over her shoulder for no apparent reason.

Three days later, I exposed myself to Juliana, for want of a better phrase. It was one of those wonderful, early autumn days that lifts your spirits but can also take you by surprise when you step out into it, as the sun can deceive you into thinking the summer hasn’t quite surrendered and then the bitter October wind stings you. I couldn’t tell which it might be. It looked like it might be quite warm but I really couldn’t tell, firstly, as I was inside looking out and, secondly, because I was dead and couldn’t feel anything.

Juliana had been upstairs dressing, as it was one of her physio days, and she was just hobbling her way downstairs. I was beginning to think that she had indeed passed off our encounter as a hallucination but, as she picked up her car keys and opened the front door, she called back behind her without turning around, “Bye Harry”.

I didn’t reply because it caught me by surprise.

I don’t think she was looking for an answer, though it was difficult to tell as there was no feeling behind the words. Was it a “Bye Harry” … see you later” or “Bye Harry … I can’t live in a house with a ghost”?

Or perhaps “Bye Harry … are you really there”?

She was gone all day and I was beginning to think I had scared her away, as it was unusual for her to be quite so late and it had been dark for some time, when her car pulled up outside the cottage. It was a little after seven when she came in through the door. Her face was tired and strained and she moved uncomfortably.

I had seen that pained look before in the weeks I had been observing her. It was as a result of her physiotherapy sessions where they worked her hard and she suffered for it but, it was working, she was getting better. I had seen the change in her over the weeks and she was getting better, becoming stronger and less reliant on her stick, but her sessions left her exhausted and in a lot of pain.

She moved slowly over to the armchair and collapsed into it. After a few moments, she rummaged in her bag and brought out a bottle of water then she reached onto the table and picked up her pills, her hand was shaking as she opened the bottle, she put one in her mouth and took a long drink of water then she leaned back and sighed. She closed her eyes and was drifting off to sleep.

I sat in the chair opposite her and spoke to her, “Juliana!”

She didn’t respond.

“Juliana!”

“What do you want?” she said without opening her eyes, “And don’t call me ‘Juliana’, only my Mother calls me ‘Juliana’.”

“What should I call you then?”

She opened her eyes and looked straight at me.

“Julie is fine, but never Jules. I hate that.”

“Ok”, I said.

She closed her eyes again.

“Julie.”

“What?” She responded impatiently.

“You need to go to bed.”

“I can sleep here. It’s fine. Now leave me alone.”

“Julie you need to go to bed.”

“Leave me alone or I’ll call Ghostbusters and they’ll come and Hoover you up.”

“They don’t exist,” I said.

“Nor do you,” she replied.

“But I’m here, and I’m not going to shut up until you go to bed.”

She opened one eye. “That’s really unkind,” she said with surprise.

“It’s for your own good,” I said sagely.

She looked unconvinced but she still struggled to her feet, muttering under her breath. Then she started slowly towards the stairs.

I felt guilty because it was clearly painful for her to walk but I knew it would be so much better for her to get a good rest in bed. I wished I could help her but I was unable to, I hadn’t mastered any of the physical stuff when I was in the cottage on my own. It didn’t seem worth training myself to open a door when it was easier to walk through it.

Since I had had a house guest, or perhaps landlady would be more precise as I was actually the house guest, I had been practising with some small success but propelling a person, even a small person, up a flight of stairs was beyond my capabilities.

“I can’t believe that I’m being haunted by Casper’s Granddad and he is making me do this,” she said as she struggled up the stairs.

As she reached the top she paused briefly to catch her breath then she headed for her room.

“Tomorrow, I’m calling an exorcist,” she shouted.

A few minutes later, all was silent and, in an instant, I left the sitting room and transported myself to her bedroom. It was the first time I’d been upstairs since she moved in and she had made the room look very nice.

She was lying on her back, fully clothed, and sleeping peacefully on her bed. On the trunk at the foot of her bed was a throw with which, after a great deal of effort, I managed to cover the lower half of her. I was just about to continue when her hand reached down and pulled it the rest of the way up. She then turned onto her side, with the throw wrapped round her shoulders.

That left me with the simple task of flicking the light switch, something that I had already mastered.

The next day was a dull and dreary, early October day and it was raining hard. The rain was beating against the window glass like someone was throwing handfuls of gravel. Julie didn’t come downstairs until 11 o’clock. I had heard her moving upstairs from about ten then I could hear the bath running so, after more than twelve hours sleep and a hot bath; she made her way down the stairs, in a good deal less pain than her ascent the night before.

She was bright and breezy and had real vitality about her, such as I had not seen in her before. She was so alive, so vibrant, she was smiling!

“Harry?” she called, as she headed for the kitchen.

I said nothing.

“Harry?” She called again as she entered the kitchen, “Where are you?”

I appeared suddenly in front of her.

“Oh,” she exclaimed as she jumped then laughed.

“I’m here”, I said, “What’s all the noise about? It’s enough to wake the dead,” I smiled.

“Yes, very funny,” she was smiling too.

I studied her face. It was a very pretty face when you removed the pain that was normally etched into it. What a difference from the night before! It was nice to see the beauty of the person when the bitterness and pain were removed, or at least masked temporarily. The girl before me today was nothing like the one I had been observing for the past month. It was clearly only a type of euphoria which would undoubtedly wear off.

“I hated you last night,” she said, looking straight into my eyes, “Making me climb those stairs, but, today, I feel the best I’ve felt since before the accident.”

She had not mentioned the accident before.

“I could kiss you,” she continued.

“Well, that would be lovely but there is nothing to kiss. You’d fall straight through me and head-butt the cooker.”

She blew me a kiss instead.

“I’m glad you are feeling better.”

“I know that it won’t last all day but, for now, I feel terrific.”

“You’ll be dancing by Christmas,” I said.

“Don’t spoil it by talking about Christmas. I hate Christmas.”

“Why?”

“I will tell you another time. I don’t want anything to spoil my mood.”

The pain did return later that day, though not as severe, and the next morning the bitterness was back and for the rest of the month she did battle with her demons. Julie had good days and bad days, but over all the demons won. She still kept herself to herself, only leaving the house for physio appointments, which were paying dividends. Her only visitors were delivering one thing or another. The majority of her time was spent on the computer which she used for her work, something involving pages and pages of gobbledygook, and as her window on the world, a world in which she did not have to participate but could merely be a spectator.

Unless she called on me, I chose my moments to appear, trying to gauge the right time in between her black moods. It was while Julie was on the computer, on one of her good days, that I chose to show myself. She was ordering her groceries online when I dropped in.

“Don’t forget the sweets for Halloween,” I said.

“Oh God, not Halloween,” she replied.

“Don’t tell me you hate Halloween as well.”

“Of course, I hate Halloween. Why wouldn’t I, all those ghastly trick or treaters begging door to door.”

She was bordering on rant mode and I was beginning to think I had picked the wrong time to call.

“Then there are the implied threats of violence and vandalism.”

I looked at her and raised my eyebrows and she stopped and laughed.

“You’re such a happy soul,” I said.

“Well, why do you like it then?”

“I don’t really.”

“So why do you want me to buy sweets? Did Rose like it, is that why?”

Neither Rose nor I were fans of Halloween before we moved to Appleby but it was just part of living in the village. The thing about Rose is that she was a community person and being part of the community was important to her. We both liked the way it was done; it was so different from our past experience. All the children would meet at the church hall and would go round in small groups, each group being accompanied by adults, then they would all go back to the village hall and have a party with all the traditional Halloween games and there were prizes for the best costumes.

“No not exactly,” I didn’t elaborate.

“You’re so odd”, she said, and turned back towards her computer.

“I was mean to them last year,” I blurted.

“Who?”

“The children. I wasn’t very nice to them,” I looked down at the floor.

“I think I made one little girl cry.”

“Oh.”

“I feel ashamed of my behaviour. Rose would have been so mad.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now,” she said, “Hopefully the kids will remember their bad experience and not come knocking this year, so, no sweets required.” She punctuated the end of the sentence with an Oliver Hardy style nod, then she smiled and got up and headed towards the bathroom.

I moved over to the computer I looked at the screen and observed that she was at the check out.

Due to much practise, after all, its not as if I have anything else to do, I had mastered moving and manipulating things over the preceding weeks. So I sat down and took hold of the mouse, I quickly returned to where Julie had been shopping and found a large tub of Halloween sweets and clicked “quantity required - 2” and then “add to basket”, then returned her to the check out just as I heard the toilet flush.

Then I went and sat down again, feeling rather pleased with myself. I was not totally unfamiliar with computers but I had never shopped on-line, but I had watched Julie enough times to pick up what to do. When she returned, she completed her shopping transaction and was none the wiser.

The next day when the shopping arrived, the driver unloaded the bags onto the step and Julie signed for the delivery and the driver left. It was only after she had carried the bags into the kitchen and began to unpack them that she noticed the 2 large tubs of Halloween candy.

“HARRY!” she shouted and thumped one of the tubs onto the counter.

“HARRY!”

“You bellowed, milady.”

“Was this you?” she said pointing at the sweets.

“You ordered them after all,” I said acting surprised, “That’s really sweet”.

“No, I did NOT,” she corrected me.

“Well it wasn’t me,” I said, “I wouldn’t know how. You must have done it subconsciously.”

“I am not the sort of person who would buy sweets for the little …”

I interrupted her, “Well, obviously, subconsciously, you’re a very nice person.”

And then I disappeared.

I stayed out of her way for the next couple of days and spent my time practising. I had mastered the fine manipulations such as flicking switches, unfolding a handkerchief and picking up a pen. I could even write, though my handwriting was still a bit shaky. What I wasn’t very good at was moving large or heavy objects, so I was practising, in the back garden, trying to move the wheelbarrow.

Unfortunately, when I eventually succeeded in moving it, I managed to frighten a passing dog walker who was startled by the sight of a wheelbarrow moving along the path under its own power. So I went indoors and found Julie sitting in her chair reading some documents. I was considering whether it was safe to appear when I noticed the tubs of sweets, on a chair, next to the door in readiness for the evening’s visitors.

I knew that, beneath that thick veneer of bitterness and cynicism, there resided a good human being. I deduced that the fact the sweets were now sitting on a chair and not in the dustbin meant that she was in one of her brighter moods. I decided I would appear but that I wouldn’t mention the sweets, just to be on the safe side.

“Hello”.

She looked up from her papers then set them on the table in front of her.

“So you’ve decided to show yourself.”

“What do you mean? I’ve been busy”, I said, feigning an indignant attitude, “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I don’t have demands on my time.”

“Yes, I saw you playing with wheelbarrow.”

“So did Mary Rudd,” I said sheepishly.

“Who’s Mary Rudd?”

“Retired postmistress.”

“And she saw you?” she asked smiling.

“No, she saw a self-propelled wheelbarrow. She’s probably having a large gin to recover as we speak.”

She was laughing now.

“Has anyone else seen you?” Julie asked.

“No, and I only revealed myself to you because …”

“You thought I was going to top myself.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you think better of me now?”

I nodded.

“I do have low moments and the world is a shitty place but, on the whole, I prefer life.”

“I wish you’d start living it then.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you prefer life, why don’t you go out into the world and live it.”

“You’re just jealous that I’m still alive and not dead like you,” she said viciously.

“No, you’re not dead, you’re alive but you’re not living.”

You live your life though a computer screen,” I continued, “You never meet people; you never interact with other human beings, you have everything delivered to your door.”

She was about to interrupt but I pressed on before she had the chance.

“And, if you could cut your own hair, you would never see anyone at all.”

“I have physio,” she corrected me.

“And what happens when you don’t need that anymore?”

She snatched up her papers and scowled, “I don’t need life tips from a ghost”. She spat out the words like venom, then she turned her back on me.

“Please, don’t do what I did; don’t imprison yourself in this cottage.”

I pleaded but she ignored me. She was angry with me but not as angry as I was at myself. I blew it. I pushed too hard and she pushed back. I could have got my point across with more subtlety. I had been making progress but now I’d gone backwards.

I was trapped in the cottage and its environs. I was earth-bound because I’d shut myself away to wallow in self-pity, after the death of my wife Rose.

I had come to the conclusion that I must help another person in order to “move on” and rejoin my Rose. It would have been easier if I had done it while I was still alive. I could have gone off and sought out someone to help but, as I was dead, I had to wait for someone to come to me. If I had lived out my last months in the world in the same way as I lived the rest of my life, I wouldn’t have been in the mess I was in.

Or maybe this was how it was meant to be. It was my destiny to help someone … which is where Julie came in … she had come to the cottage to escape the world, at that moment I didn’t know why and I would need to know that before I could help her, but I was determined to help her whether she liked it or not.

To find out what I needed to know, I needed to be on good terms with her, which was not helped by my clumsy handling of the situation. So, it was with some trepidation after our angry exchange, that I went into the sitting room later in the day. I feared she might take out the anger she felt towards me and channel it at the innocent revellers.

To be on the safe side, I remained invisible until I had assessed the lay of the land.

I half expected to see Julie sitting in a rocking chair, swigging from a whisky bottle, catapulting sweets at the trick or treaters heads, but she was humming.

I hadn’t witnessed her humming before. She did impatient tapping of her fingers. She did grinding her teeth, but I had never witnessed humming. Humming was a little unnerving. However, I took a gamble that it was safe. I materialized.

“You’re humming,” I said.

She jumped. I had startled her and she was clearly flustered, then her face went scarlet. “No, I’m not,” she said indignantly.

“You were humming. I heard you.”

“What you heard was me clearing my throat,” Julie said, without conviction, before changing the subject, “Anyway, where have you been? Have you been keeping out of my way?”

“I thought it advisable.”

Before she had chance to comment, she was alerted to the approach of trick or treaters coming down the long winding path.

At this time of the day, Julie would normally have to employ her stick to move with any kind of speed around the house but, I noticed, it was leant discretely against the wall behind the door, out of sight of anyone who might be standing on the step, if the door was open.

She pulled the curtain back a couple of inches and peered out.

“They’re coming. What do I do?” she asked urgently.

“Well,” I began.

“Oh come on, you got me into this mess.”

“Calm down or you’ll have a stroke,” I said.

Julie took a deep breath and waited for me to speak.

“All the children will have a bag for their sweets,” I told her.

“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently.

“Well, you put a small handful of sweets into each bag, but don’t be too generous too early or you won’t have enough to go round everyone.”

“Okay,” she said and nodded.

“But first you have to open the door,” I said, inclining my head towards the closed door.

“Oh God, yes,” she laughed nervously, “That would help.”

Julie opened the door and was met with a chorus of “TRICK OR TREAT” from a small group of excited witches, warlocks, ghosts and ghouls.

“Wow, look at you all,” she said, “What brilliant costumes.”

Ok who’s first?” she asked, as she picked up one of the sweet tubs and scooped up a handful.

At the back of the group, keeping order was a tall dark haired man, wearing a flat cap and leather jacket. Julie caught his eye briefly and smiled, and he smiled back then carried on, but she kept glancing in his direction. He was in his thirties, she estimated. Soon, she had deposited a handful of sweets into every bag and the group moved back up the path.

“Goodbye, Miss Molesworth,” the tall man said and smiled.

She smiled back and, then, looked self consciously in my direction.

Despite herself, she was still smiling as she shut the door.

“You didn’t smile at the children, did you,” I asked, “You’ll scar them for life.”

“Oh, and which poor child was it that you made cry,” she retorted.

“Or was it someone else you were smiling at?”

Julie blushed deeply just as the door bell rang.

“Saved by the bell,” I said.

Julie opened the door and repeated the exercise and, then, another three times until the sweet tubs were empty and all the village children had had their share.

She closed the door and reached for her cane, “I’m exhausted.”

“You enjoyed it though?”

She gave me a stern sideways glance and I could see pain in her features.

“Ask me later, after I’ve had a drink.”

With a bottle of wine and a glass, she hobbled towards her armchair.

“Will you join me,” she asked, smiling, “Oh, I forgot, you can’t.”

“Oh, that’s cruel.”

After her first glass of wine, she began to relax and, after the second, she had lowered her guard.

“You had a good time, didn’t you?” I ventured.

“Ok, yes, I enjoyed it, though I’ll deny it tomorrow.”

“And the smile?”

“I admit he was very handsome, for a yokel.”

“His name is Paul Warwick and he’s not so much a yokel, more a country squire.”

“Really,” she said with disinterest, “So which of the little darlings were his children?”

“None of them,” I answered, “He’s not married.”

“OH”, she exclaimed then replaced it with a rather muted “oh”.

After another glass, I thought it was safe to raise the subject of this afternoon’s exchange of views.

“Am I forgiven?” I asked.

“What for?” she slurred.

It became apparent I had left it one glass too late for a sensible conversation. I had forgotten to take into account that she hadn’t eaten since lunch.

“This afternoon.”

“Of course, you spoke very wisdomous words”.

“Widomous?”

“Yes, you are very wisdomly,” she said, as she leant forward to raise her glass to me and slopping half of it on the table.

“I think you mean wise.”

“Well, I was close,” she almost said, slopping more wine, this time down her blouse.

“Time to get you to bed, I think.”

“You cheeky, old ghost, you,” she said, trying to get out of the chair.

Once she managed to get vertical, her bad leg gave way and I had to catch her before she hit the floor. It was a good job I had been practising otherwise I would never have been able to help her. It must have appeared a very comical scene as I had a firm hold on Julie yet, when she tried to hold onto me, her hands kept going through me.

“You’re a difficult man to get to grips with, Harry,” she remarked, with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Well, you concentrate on staying upright and I will propel you upstairs to bed. Okay?”

So, with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth and one eye closed tight shut, she managed to adopt a stance which kept her, more or less, upright. I then gave her instructions, “Left, Right. Left, Right”, until we had made the journey up to her room then I guided her onto her bed.

“I hope you’re going to behave like a gentleman,” she said and smiled, still with one eye shut tight.

“You’re quite safe. I’m dead, remember,” I replied, as I covered her.

“That’s the story of my life,” she said.

“What is?”

“Trying to raise the dead, in the bedroom.”

This caused her to explode with a laugh so dirty it wouldn’t have been out of place in a "Carry On" film. She was still chuckling when I turned out the light.

“Good night, Julie.”

“Night, Harry.”

The next morning, I was sitting in the kitchen, reading the local newspaper, when she walked in, surprisingly bright, though she was walking quite stiffly and she was a little shamefaced.

“Good morning, Julie, and how are we this morning?”

“I’m fine”, she said shortly then she added, “Was I very embarrassing last night?”

“Not very,” I replied.

“Oh God, I was embarrassing though?”

“You were very funny. It was nice to see you happy.”

“Thanks to you,” she said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?” I looked up from the paper, quiet shocked. But she was already on her way, out the door, to her physio appointment.

It was late afternoon when she returned and she was moving only a little more stiffly than she had been when she left that morning.

“Didn’t you go to physio?” I asked.

“Yes, I did and it was the best session I’ve had,” she replied, “I think I’m turning the corner at last.”

“Excellent.”

“Good news and bad news from the doctor though.”

“Oh?”

“The good news is he’s changed my medication which is stronger but I only need to take as and when needed.”

“And the bad news?”

“Strictly no alcohol with these ones,” she said holding up an innocuous looking brown bottle.

“A small price to pay though,” I said encouragingly.

“That’s easily said by someone who can’t hold their drink,” she said, then laughed like a drain.

Her mirth was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Quick hide,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, jumping up.

“Wait a minute, I don’t have to hide. I’m a ghost, I’m invisible.”

Julie looked at me and put one finger up to her lips, indicating I should shut up even though she was the only one who could hear me, then she opened the door.

When the door opened it revealed a very wet Paul Warwick.

“Oh, look, it’s the yokel,” I said.

“Hello, Miss Molesworth,” the yokel said.

“Please, call me Julie, and do come in out of the rain.”

“Thank you.”

He stepped in and Julie closed the door.

“He’s dripping on your carpet.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Paul said.

“No, not at all,” she replied.

“Good, its just I thought I could hear voices before.”

“That was probably the radio,” she lied.

“Good,” he said unconvinced.

“Quick, change the subject,” I suggested.

“Can I offer you a hot drink?”

“No, thank you. I can’t stop, I’m afraid. I just called to see if you were aware of the November 5th bonfire party?”

“No I wasn’t,” Julie answered.

“Well, we run a coach, from the church hall, over to Little Trotwood, every year. They have an organised display. Would you be interested?”

“That’s very kind of you but …”

“Go on, say yes,” I urged.

“… my leg isn’t really up to it …”

“Liar.”

“… It’s not good in the damp weather.”

“That’s a shame,” Paul said sincerely, “It’s always a very good display and they have the best hog roast in the county”.

“Thank you anyway,” Julie added.

“If you change your mind, just give me a call,” he said, reaching into his coat and bringing out a card which he handed to her.

“I will.”

She opened the door again and Paul stepped out into the rain again.

“No problem, bye.”

“Good bye and thanks again,” Julie said closing the door.

“Coward,” I said, after she had shut the door.

“I don’t like fireworks, that’s all,” she said pulling a face.

“Coward.”

“I’m not a coward,” she replied indignantly.

”What else do you call it? He’s attracted to you and you to him.”

“Nonsense,” Julie said, clearly flustered, “and, even if there were any attraction, I don’t need anyone in my life.”

“Everyone needs someone.”

“Rubbish! In the end, people always let you down.”

“You can’t tar everyone with the same brush,” I said.

“I don’t need anyone Harry, I’m perfectly happy on my own.”

“Paul’s a good man.”

“It doesn’t matter how they start out, in the end, they always let you down, trust me.”

I started to speak.

“Harry, let’s just agree to disagree, shall we?”

I knew I was fighting a losing battle so, meekly, I said, “Okay.”

“Good. Now, I’m off to have a bath.”

Despite my losing the “battle of the bonfire night party”, I knew the war was far from lost and that I had made great progress. A victory, however small, was still a victory and, therefore, invaluable. What was now more important than anything else was to pick, very carefully, the battles I chose to fight. So, during the month, I chipped away at the immovable object that was Julie, in small subtle ways, and I felt I was making some progress yet, as well as I felt I was doing, I couldn’t quantify it.

I couldn’t measure my success unless I could get Julie and Paul in the same place at the same time. I had absolutely no idea how I could manufacture a circumstance that would bring the two of them together. I was left with the feeling that it would take divine intervention to get them together … and as it turned out I was right.

We were almost at the end of November and Julie had made so much progress she was hardly using the stick in the house, even to get upstairs, although she still took it with her whenever she went out even though it was extremely unlikely that she would ever be free of it entirely.

She had made progress in other ways as well. She seemed less frightened of the outside world and had started to take a daily newspaper again. One morning, a radio appeared in the kitchen.

We had taken to spending every evening together, playing chess or cards and chatting casually on a variety of subjects. I would often try to steer the conversation into areas I wanted to explore, as part of my long term strategy, but, quite often, we would just listen to the radio.

It was during one of these very pleasant evenings, that I came to enjoy greatly, when events took a change of direction. There had been a ferocious, autumn storm battering the cottage all day. The storm was so bad we had to switch the radio off because the reception was too poor and it was as we were sitting, playing chess, when there was an almighty rumble and crash outside.

“What the hell was that?” Julie said, gripping the arm of the chair until her knuckles went white.

“I’m not sure,” I said standing up, “I’ll go and investigate.”

“Well, be careful, Harry.”

“Unless it’s the Ghostbusters, I think I’m probably safe,” I said, giving her a bemused look.

I transported myself outside and, for the first time since my death, I was not sorry to be dead. The weather was just awful, with a fearsome storm blowing the rain horizontally. I was grateful not to feel it.

It didn’t take long to find the source of the almighty crash; the gale had uprooted an old horse chestnut tree and dumped it into Julie’s garden, missing the cottage by a few feet. I walked the full length of the tree to find the root end which sprang up out of the darkness about ten feet the other side of the crushed wooden fence marking the boundary between Julie’s garden and the land owner responsible for the removal of the fallen tree - Paul Warwick. I smiled to myself, looking up to the heavens, nodding in admiration.

When I reappeared in the cottage, the room seemed to be empty.

“Is it safe?” Julie asked.

I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from at first then I found Julie, hiding behind her armchair, wielding her cane like a weapon.

“What are you doing behind there?” I asked incredulously, “Of course it’s safe.”

She came out from her hiding place, suddenly feeling rather foolish.

“I was scared,” she added meekly.

“Well there’s no need to be,” I reassured her.

“What was that noise then?” she asked urgently.

“The storm has brought a tree down and, the good news is, it missed the cottage … but your shed is only good for firewood”

“Is that all? I knew it would be something simple like that.” She was suddenly confident again, “What should I do now?”

“Well, have a mug of cocoa and go to bed,” I said.

“No, about the tree, I mean.”

“There’s nothing much you can do about it tonight. Just have a good night’s sleep and phone Paul in the morning.”

“Paul?” she asked coyly.

“Yes. Paul Warwick. It’s his tree, he’ll arrange everything.”

“Oh,” she said disinterestedly.

“But, don’t worry, you wont have to see him. He’ll do everything by phone.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment but failing.

The next morning, Julie and I went out to inspect the damage in daylight. Julie was in her dressing gown and wellies and me, in my revolting red jumper. She couldn’t get very far, due to the tangle of branches, so she went back inside. When I had finished my inspection, I went back inside myself and found Julie standing in the kitchen, her mobile phone in front of her, tapping the counter with the edge of a business card.

“He won’t bite, you know,” I offered, “unless you want him to.” I laughed to myself but she, apparently, didn’t hear my little joke.

“I said he won’t bite, you know.”

“What? I’m not worried about talking to him. That’s a preposterous suggestion.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t a problem. I was just thinking that’s all”. Then she picked up her mobile and keyed in the number. “Hello, It’s Julie Molesworth here. Is that Mr Warwick? … Ok … Paul.”

All the time she was talking, she fiddled with her hair in her spare hand which amused me greatly.

“I’m fine but I have a bit of a problem. I have a rather large tree lying in my garden.”

She noticed me watching her, scowled, and turned her back to me.

“No, the house is fine.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes, that would be fine.”

“Ok, thank you, bye.”

She switched off the phone and put it down.

“Well, that sounded quite amicable, not scary at all,” I said.

”I wasn’t scared to talk to him,” she retorted.

“So, what was the outcome?”

“He’s coming round this morning,” she said, matter of factly, “in about an hour.”

“Excellent,” I said, “That is good news.”

Julie nodded her agreement.

“And I think he’s just going to love your outfit.”

She gave me a puzzled look, then glanced at her dressing gown and muddy wellies, and looked back at me again. The puzzled expression had been replaced by panic.

“Oh God,” she exclaimed then kicked off her left boot so it flew across the kitchen. She was unable to employ the same technique with her other boot, due to here bad leg, so she sat down, lifted her foot off the floor and shouted, “BOOT! QUICK!”

“Alright calm down,” I said, as I removed her boot.

“Yes, calm,” she took a deep breath, “Calm is good.”

Then she jumped up and rushed out of the kitchen. She was still unable to run, despite the progress she had made, but she covered the ground quite swiftly anyway.

She reappeared forty five minutes later looking much more presentable in a smart skirt and blouse and, I noticed, she was wearing makeup.

“Is that better?” she asked.

“Very smart, but you really didn’t need to go to all that trouble for me.”

“I didn’t,” she replied shortly.

“I did it for …” she trailed off.

“For Paul Warwick? Is that what you were going to say? Why on earth would you care what he thinks?”

“Shut up,” she said and tried to punch my arm playfully but, not for the first time, her hand went right through me and she nearly fell over. “That’s really annoying, Harry”, she said when she had straightened herself up, “I hate it when that happens.”

A little over ten minutes later, Paul Warwick’s Land-rover pulled up in the lane outside the cottage. Julie was looking out the window as he got out of the vehicle and opened the gate but, instead of coming to the front door, he went straight to the site of the damage and out of her line of sight. She went into the other room which afforded her a better look and watched as he clambered up onto the fallen tree and then disappeared down the other side.

“I don’t think he’s going to come in,” she said, still trying to catch sight of him amongst the branches.

“Oh, he’ll be in when he’s done,” I said.

It was obvious, if only to me, that he hadn’t rushed round to the cottage, on a job he could quite easily have delegated, only to go off again without fulfilling the real purpose for his visit which was clearly to see Julie.

Julie spent the next five minutes craning her neck to get a better view then she moved away from the window and headed back to the kitchen, just in time to see him heading back up the path to the gate.

“He’s off now,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment.

“What?”

She went back into the sitting room and sat down in her chair and I just didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t believe I’d got it so wrong. I would have put money on it. I sat down in the chair opposite her and tried to think of something clever to say.

“Well, it’s probably for the best; it was bound to end in tears.”

“That’s not helping,” she said flatly.

I was just about to say something full of wisdom when there was a knock at the door.

Julie opened the door to find a rather dishevelled Paul Warwick the other side of it.

After a brief exchange of polite greetings, Julie invited Paul into the kitchen with the promise of coffee and then she turned to look in my direction and mouthed, “Not you”. So I sat alone in the sitting room, for the next twenty minutes, trying to decipher words from the low rumble of conversation, interspersed with small bursts of girlish laughter.

I had just come to the conclusion that, as I was a ghost, I could have been in the room with them all along and she would never have known, when the kitchen door opened and Paul walked through.

“So the guys will be here first thing tomorrow,” he said as he opened the front door, “And I will see you later in the week.”

“Ok, thanks Paul, bye,” Julie said then closed the door.

“Well?” I said.

“Like you weren’t in the room eavesdropping all the time,” she implied.

“No, I was not,” I said, suitably indignant, even though I would have been if I’d thought about it sooner.

“Oh, sorry, Harry.”

She went on to fill me in on the bones of the conversation, doubtless leaving out any of the flirtyness.

Paul was sending a crew round to cut and clear the timber which, due to the size of the tree, would take two or three days. Then he would return and assess the rest of the damage to the garden … something else that could easily have been delegated.

The next day was the 1st of December and the men were hard at work cutting up the fallen tree. I thought to myself, as Julie came down the stairs, that she looked like a different person. Her body had been getting stronger day by day for weeks but, now, there appeared to be a new spark within her, a new hope.

I just hoped I was right about her and Paul because I feared if that spark were to be extinguished again it would never relight.

I had just returned to my reading when she said, “Hi, Harry, they’re a bit noisy, aren’t they?”

“Harry!”

“HARRY?”

When I didn’t answer, she picked up her cane and poked the book I was reading.

“Oh, hello,” I said.

“I’ve been talking to you. Are you deaf?”

“Not exactly. I turned the sound off so I didn’t have to listen to the racket outside.”

“You can do that?”

I nodded.

“Cool,” she said, “Unfortunately, I can’t do that so I’m going shopping for the day.”

“Great, don’t forget the decorations.”

“Decorations for what?”

“Christmas,” I said, “It’s the 1st of December. The advent calendars go up today.”

“No, no, no.” She said firmly. “I don’t do Christmas.”

“Why not?” I said shocked, “Why don’t you like Christmas?”

“Well, let me see, it’s a waste of money for one thing.”

“And?”

“The whole thing is just a sham,” she stated angrily, then slipped on her coat and picked up her bag. “I’ll see you later,” she said and left.

I knew, from the start of this exercise, that she had some serious issues in her life but what I didn’t know was that Christmas was one of them, if in fact it was. Perhaps her dislike of Christmas was actually masking something deeper. Only time would tell, unless I were to push the right buttons.

Two days later, the last of the timber was removed revealing the full extent of the damage to the boundary fence, the garden shed, and what used to be the lawn. Miraculously, the wishing-well sustained only minor damage.

Paul was on site, talking on his mobile, organising the next phase which would be to remove all the debris, replace the fencing, erect a new shed, and generally tidy up. The new lawn would have to wait until spring and the replacement shrubs and plants would be replaced at the same time.

Julie went out into the garden just as he was finishing his phone call.

I was standing by the remains of what used to be the shed … the shed erected by my own two hands. I was amazed it had lasted twenty years … I never did master DIY.

I was too far away to hear what Paul and Julie were saying but they were headed back inside the house. I was already in the kitchen when they arrived.

“We’re cutting Christmas trees on the estate, at the moment. I will have them cut you one, by way of an apology. What size would you like?”

“I don’t really do Christmas,” she said, “It’s just an empty, commercial festival.”

But thanks anyway,” she added.

“Oh and when did you become so cynical?”

“From the moment I discovered Father Christmas doesn’t exist.”

“Who says he doesn’t?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” she said sarcastically.

“I think everybody has a little bit of Christmas in their heart,” said Paul.

“That would be tiny in my case.”

Paul looked a bit deflated after she said that but perked up when she added, “A meal would be a perfectly acceptable apology though.”

It was a week later when Paul picked Julie up and drove her over to Abbotsford for their meal. I would say their “date” but Julie kept insisting it was not a “date”.

It was quite late when he brought her home and I was a little disappointed when the evening ended on the doorstep with a peck on the cheek. I had high hopes but Julie was holding back for some reason.

“Good night,” Julie came in and closed the door.

“Nice evening?” I asked.

“Yes very nice.”

“Good meal? Good company?”

“Yes to both questions.”

“But?”

“I really like him, but I don’t know if I want to go through it all again.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said.

“I’ve done my share of venturing in the past and I haven’t yet gained. I’ll probably just screw it up again, Harry, so it’s probably best if I stop it before it starts.”

She waved away any protest from me and went up to bed.

“Night, Harry.”

“Night, Julie.”

“That won’t do at all,” I said myself.

The next day, before Julie was up and about, I sent a text to Paul from Julie’s mobile. It was quite exciting. I’d never done one before, even while I was alive. I was surprised that it was more difficult than it looked and really rather complicated to get the letter you wanted, and then it kept changing the word. I came very close a number of times to throwing the damn thing across the room.

Eventually I managed to write: “Thank you, Paul, I had a wonderful time last night. I really would love to do it again. Julie x PS Just ignore me if I play hard to get lol.”

Within a couple of minutes I got a reply: “I had a wonderful time too. I will call you soon. Paul.”

I quickly deleted my text to him, and his reply, then put the phone back in Julie’s handbag with minutes to spare before I heard Julie coming down the stairs.

I felt very pleased with myself and my subterfuge and thought it was just a matter of time before the two of them got together again, however when a week had passed and nothing happened, I was not so confident.

There had been a couple of texts which I didn’t get to see before she deleted them and there had been a phone call but it didn’t last long.

So it was to be another evening of chess and conversation. I set up the board as Julie entered the room from the kitchen, carrying a glass and an opened bottle of wine. It was the first she’d had for several weeks.

I frowned at her and nodded in the direction of the wine.

“It’s okay; I haven’t taken any pain killers for three days so this is by way of celebration.”

“Excellent”, I said, “I wish I could join you.”

“Bad luck,” she said, taking a long sip.

“I would prefer Christmas ale.”

“Oh, don’t start on Christmas again.”

“Why do you hate Christmas so much?” I asked.

“How long do you have?” she replied, without humour.

“I have as long as it takes. I’m dead, remember,” I said, trying to inject a little humour, as I sat down opposite her.

“Where should I start,” she looked around the room as if seeking inspiration.

“Christmas has been a disappointment all my life.”

I grew up with the constant disappointment of not getting the presents that I asked for,” she said with a wry smile, “Which I blamed Santa for.”

I started to speak but Julie interrupted me.

“I know that’s very childish and pathetic,” she even laughed a little.

“When did you stop believing?”

“I believed right up until I was seven. That was the year I discovered Santa Claus was actually my drunken father,” she took a long drink, “So with a drunk for a father and a violent bully for a mother, my childhood was just full of Christmas joy.”

“Not brilliant then,” I added.

“Then three Christmases ago, at one of our merry Christmas gatherings, my own sister stole my husband and my mother took my sister's side,” she paused, thin lipped, remembering the pain of it, fresh as if for the first time.

She gathered herself then continued, “My dear mother said if I’d kept him satisfied in the bedroom he wouldn’t have strayed. Not that he had to stray too far with my slutty sister sniffing round him like a bitch on heat.”

“What did you say to your mother?” I asked.

“I said that if she’d kept my father satisfied in the bedroom he wouldn’t have turned to drink.”

“Oooh.”

“I haven’t spoken to her, or my sister, since.”

She took another drink.

“Then last year, two weeks before Christmas, a drunk driver ran a red light and broadsided me, shattering my hip and putting me in hospital for months.”

She reached out and grabbed her cane, “And, now, I still have my trusty stick as a constant reminder of what Christmas means to me.”

I wished I could have given her a fatherly hug but I couldn’t, so we fell silent and concentrated on the chess board for a while.

Early next morning, I was out and about in the garden. It was less than a week before Christmas and I was beginning to despair that, even though we had come a long way together, it was not going to be far enough to save us both. Yet it was more than that … when I’d started helping Julie it was so I could cross over and be reunited with Rose, but I had come to care about Julie more than I thought possible. I had brought her back from the brink and, now, I resolved that I would succeed in opening her heart, not for my own sake but for hers.

I transported myself to the sitting room, only to find it empty, but there was the sound of cooking coming from the kitchen and, perhaps more alarming, the sound of singing.

When I appeared in the kitchen I found Julie frying bacon and singing along to an Eva Cassidy song, playing on the radio.

“Are you ok?” I asked, with false concern.

“Yes why?”

“I thought you must have had a relapse and your hip was hurting.”

“Very funny. Harry”, she said, with a smile.

“Would you like some bacon? Oh, I forgot, you can’t eat, can you? I’ll have to eat it all myself then.”

“You can be a very cruel, young woman,” I said indignantly before tucking the newspaper under my arm and withdrew to the sitting room.

After she had devoured her bacon, which not only could I not eat but perhaps worse I could not smell, she came into the sitting room and sat opposite me and we started a tug of war over the newspaper.

“You’re in a very playful mood today,” I suggested, after I had lost custody of the paper.

“I feel happy today. I don’t know why, I just do.”

As she was in a good mood, I decided to chance an enquiry as to the state of play between her and Paul.

“Have you heard from Paul?” I said directly.

“Don’t start.”

“What? It was an innocent enough question.”

“Hmm, well, as it happens, he did phone me.”

“Really?” I said keenly.

“He invited me out for dinner on Christmas eve”.

“That’s great.”

“I declined his invitation.”

“Why?”

“Look, Harry, I’m sure he really is a nice guy and I do like him.”

“But?”

“But … I am finally getting my life back on course and that’s due, in no small part, to you and I don’t need any complications.”

“That really is a shame,” I said sincerely.

“I just don’t think I’m ready,” she added, handing me the paper, and then returning to the kitchen.

I left it ten minutes or so before I joined her, just as Bruce Springfield’s gravelled tones emanated from the radio. I dueted with him in a fine rendition of “Santa Claus is coming to town”.

When he and I had finished, more or less together, I took a bow or two.

“Ha ha, I do love a good Christmas song.”

“Oh, God protect me from the happy Christmas ghost.” Julie was laughing. “What is it with you and Christmas anyway?” she asked rhetorically.

Then she stood and looked at me, my portly build, white beard and the hateful red sweater, shaking her head despairingly.

“In fact, come to think of it, you even look like Santa, in a rather jaded, retired to the old folk’s home, kind of way,” then she chuckled her rich, velvet chuckle.

“Oh, and why is that, just because I’m a jolly, fat man with a white beard?” I said striking an indignant pose.

“No, you have a fair point. You would only qualify on two out of three,” then her chuckle morphed into a full belly laugh, and then I was laughing with her.

Our merriment was interrupted by a knock at the door and Julie was still wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes as she opened the door.

It was a smiling Paul Warwick who had knocked and his expression instantly changed to one of concern when he saw Julie’s tears.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, with genuine concern.

Realizing what she was doing, Julie quickly dispelled his concern with a tale about something hilarious on the radio. Suitably reassured, Paul’s smile returned to his face. He briefly gathered himself before revealing the meaning for his visit.

“I know you said you didn’t do Christmas,” he began, “but, as I said, everyone has a little Christmas in their heart.”

Julie was about to cut him off in full flow, but he put his hand up to stop her before she could start.

“So, with that in mind,” he said, ducking down to retrieve something from the floor, “I thought of this.”

He was holding in his hand a small, live Christmas tree in a pot, complete with tinsel and baubles, standing about two feet tall. It was even topped by a fairy.

“A tiny Christmas tree for someone with only a tiny bit of Christmas in her heart,” he said as he presented the tree to Julie.

“That’s so sweet,” she said, “Thank you.”

“You can plant it in the garden, after Christmas, so it will keep growing and, hopefully, your love of Christmas will grow with it.”

There were tears in her eyes again as she looked at the tiny tree. Paul excused himself, stating he had some estate business which needed his attention. I found out later that the estate “business” was delivering hampers to the homes of his workers.

Julie just stood looking at the little tree, with a silly grin on her face, as Paul said goodbye and headed off, up the path.

“I told you he was a nice man,” I said.

“Yes”, she said, looking at me with tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh God, I can’t let him go. I have to talk to him.”

“Well, run after him then,” I suggested.

“I can’t run,” she said. “Go and slow him down somehow.”

Julie set off walking and I transported my self to the gate just as Paul’s hand reached for the latch. As he tried to open the gate I held it shut and, no matter how much he shook it, the gate didn’t move. Julie was only a few yards away now.

“Paul!” she called.

Paul turned around to see where Julie was calling from.

“Hi. You appear to have a problem with your gate,” he said, just as I let go of the gate and the gate swung open. “That’s odd,” he added.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Julie said, wincing a little at the effort of pursuing him, “About dinner on Christmas Eve? Is it too late to change my mind?”

On Christmas eve, I sat in the solitude of the cottage for what I hoped would be the last time, hoping that the person I had come to care for so much would not need me anymore while at the same time regretting that I would no longer be required to spend the long, pleasant evenings in her company.

In the beginning, I thought that I was left stranded on earth solely because of the way I withdrew from life, and that my having to help someone escape my fate was my penance, but I came to understand that my predicament was not so much a punishment for me but more about salvation for Julie … a last chance for her to find happiness.

In truth, no matter how fond I was of Julie, I did not belong here and, though tinged with regret, I hoped to be moving on soon.

I became aware of voices outside and thought this was the moment of a tender goodnight kiss on the door step but, instead, the door opened and Julie stepped into the darkness. My heart dropped. I thought we were back, perhaps not to square one but we had definitely gone into reverse.

Then the light went on and following Julie was the tall figure of Paul, who closed the door behind him.

“Make your self comfortable while I get us a drink,” Julie said, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Paul headed in my direction and I had to move quickly before he sat on my lap.

I stood invisible in the corner by the stairs and observed as Julie came out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine and a glass, then she stopped in her tracks and turned on her heels and briefly returned to the kitchen, reappearing with a second glass. She smiled to herself at the force of habit and glanced around the room to see where I was.

Julie set the bottle and glasses on the table then, before she could sit, Paul stood up and took her hand, pulling her gently towards him and, beside the tiny Christmas tree, he kissed her tenderly and she kissed him back.

At the precise moment she returned his kiss, on that Christmas Eve, a bright light emanated down the stairs and I knew my moment had come.

I looked up the illuminated staircase and, standing at the top, was my dear Rose with her hand outstretched towards me.

I turned again to look at the embracing couple. Paul had his back to me and, as their lips parted, I allowed Julie to see me one last time.

“Good bye, Julie, it’s time for me to go now. Have a happy life,” I said and waved.

Then, as she stood holding onto Paul, her head resting on his shoulder, Julie mouthed the words, “Merry Christmas, Harry.”

I left the young couple. I walked up the stairs and took Rose’s hand and we were instantly in another place.

Now, I spend most of my time with Rose and all those who went before me but, from time to time, I still look in on Paul and Julie. I can do that now I’m a proper spirit … but that is a tale for another time.

Long Winter's Nap Art Print
Gelsinger, Dona
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